Storm
by rainonmonday
Summary: Anne cannot stop thinking that the future king of France is her child and hers alone. She tries to get through her head that for all purposes, he is the son of Louis and rightful heir of the throne. In her heart, the Dauphin is part of France. His father has given him the blood of France's people, his courage and love for honor and duty.


**First fic for this fandom. Hopefully, I did them justice.**

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_**Storm**_

Whenever the weather is as turbulent as tonight, a wave of longing washes over her. It's been many years since she left Madrid, but she misses the weather. Paris is much rainier and colder, darker even. But she knows there's no point in this, as a visit to her brother would be nearly impossible given the state of the relationships between France and Spain. And she does blame herself for this. Wasn't her marriage supposed to strengthen the two countries after all?

That's another subject altogether. Her marriage to Louis is not what she imagined could be. For the longest time they had been friendly towards each other, and she had been dutiful responding to all the demands her role presented, but she noticed how he grew further apart, seemingly much more after the birth of her child.

She sighs and flinches as lightning breaks the sky followed by thunder.

Anne cannot stop thinking that the future king of France is her child and hers alone. She tries to get through her head that for all purposes, he is the son of Louis and rightful heir of the throne. In her heart, the _Dauphin_ is part of France. His father has given him the blood of France's people, his courage and love for honor and duty. That's enough so she can breathe and keep the lies.

"Shh." The warm breath tickles her cheek softly, but it startles her.

It takes her little time to recognize the smell of leather, sweat, and rain on him. It takes much less to her body to remember him in the way his hands feel on her waist, gentle yet strong. Sometimes she forgets he can be as stealth as he wants because day and night she hears the tinkling sound of guards and musketeers walking around the palace with the swords sheathed and their heavy steps covering every inch of the palace.

Anne turns around and meets Aramis' warm eyes, partially hidden behind a few pieces of wet hair that he promptly combs back with a gloved hand. Her hands itch with the need of running them through his hair, and the memory of tracing the scars on his body. But her heart leaps at the small curve of his lips and how he lets his gaze roam along her features.

Thankfully Constance has proved herself to be her best confidante, the one person she has been able to trust, and also the only one who seems to understand what it's like to be trapped in a marriage while truly wanting a man who is impossible.

"You called for me," he states in a deep whisper while a few drops of water glide down his dark hair, falling onto his doublet.

"I have," she confesses, without really wanting to say something else.

"Why? You shouldn't have. We-" he shushes when she tilts her head to the side, when she tries to make him realize there's no reason in desire. He sighs mournfully. "We promised."

She lifts her hands and cradles his face, feeling the coarse hairs of his beard and the softness at the same time. "I've promised so much. I've also listened to a fair share of promises, yet no one really commits to what they say."

"Anne." She closes her eyes at that little murmur. It's such an intimate gesture to be called by her name, much more when it rolls off his tongue with care and emotion.

"You've been the only one who abides by words. And I can't seem to take it anymore."

There's an inexplicable force that drives her to be her true self around Aramis. Whenever he's with her, she's not a queen or the mother of a future king or even part of the royalty. She's a woman named Anne, who feels wanted and cared for. It's a remarkably freeing experience.

"I shouldn't be here," he mutters.

Drops of water fall onto the floor and the light of a pair of candles is the only thing keeping darkness away.

"Kiss me," she whispers so very softly, tilting her head up, trying to convey her emotions in one look. She doesn't know if she's asking him or demanding, but she feels compelled to just pretend one more time how things would be if she only had the chance to be with the one she desires.

Aramis opens his mouth and she's partially afraid he'll refuse, but then he swallows thickly, blinking once, twice at her, and his lips are on hers.

His kisses aren't anything like the ones she has shared with Louis. They aren't the touch of cold, thin lips without meaning, without anything more than duty. Whenever she and Aramis kiss, her heart turns wild, her body burns as his hands hold her delicately but possessively. Time and time again she has wondered if he likes her because she's forbidden or if he's truly fond of her – the same amount of times she has stopped herself, since there's no point in imagining what could be.

She was raised to be polite, and to be delicate. People has always treated her as if she were on the verge of breaking, and while Aramis does care for her, he does it in a very different manner. He doesn't keep her in a case of glass like an untouchable doll. He pulls her close to him, he wraps her in his arms and puts himself on the line for her.

Anne has entertained the thought of what she enjoys about his kiss and touch, but she can't quite explain it. It's the roughness, the greediness of his lips firmly against hers, in opposition to how tender his fingers thread through her hair and roam along her waist. But there's something more, something she fails to pinpoint, but bathes her in a warm and pleasant feeling.

She won't call what they have love, because she is not familiar with it. She does know she feels the most extraordinary love for her son, and at least a part of that must also belong to the person who helped her create such beautiful child. She's just scared of the consequences of the sentiment.

Her hands swiftly search to free him of his clothes, to have more of him to touch, to perhaps trace the scars on his shoulders and chest once more and this one have time to ask him about the stories behind them. But she's selfish. At least a bit. She also wants him to touch her, and make her feel wanted, and beautiful with his expressive eyes and romantic words, even if he had said them a hundred times to a hundred women.

This time he doesn't stop her. He doesn't say a word as he strips her of her nightgown, as he kisses her with more fervor in between disposing his own clothes to the floor. Neither of them stops when the contrast of her silk gown and his worn out doublet are visible as they tangle together, falling on her bed as the rain outside the palace falls stronger. Thunder and lightning all over Paris.

"I must go," Aramis says while his hand caresses her back. Anne presses her ear tighter against his chest, the sound of his heart lulling her to a sleep she wishes they could share, to wake up with him at her side safe and wrapped up in his arms. "Before anyone sees me."

"I know. I just don't want you to, but I wish to keep you safe."

"To be safe, this should've never happened," he says without malice. Anne knows it's the truth. "Nothing should've ever happened between us. But men's nature is to be selfish." He smiles a bit at her and she turns to see him. "I want to be here, with you. My life is not a high price to pay for it, but I'm afraid of what might happen to you. Both of you."

She says nothing, because his fears are also hers. She knows they are all in danger. Politics with Spain. France's future. Her marriage and war seem to be very closely related.

"Do you want to see him?" She asks and doesn't wait for an answer, standing up and putting on her robe. He follows her, donning his breeches and shirt, both half done and askew in his eagerness to see their child.

Her room connects directly to the one of the _Dauphin_, avoiding the guards and anyone who might be around. It's late enough that none of the wet nurses should be there – the baby is probably asleep. She makes sure she's right, and they are alone, to grant Aramis permission to see his son, the one who will never belong to him – his gift to France.

He leans over the crib, softly studying the features of the child, smiling fondly at him. "He's already quite handsome."

She smiles, but does it with sadness. She feels so very heavy-heartened at the sight of them, of what could've been if she weren't Queen and had a chance to be like anyone else.

Anne approaches them and looks at how peaceful their son looks, as if he knew who is with him now.

"Thank you for giving him to me," she whispers.

Aramis looks surprised for a moment, but quickly recovers and reaches to touch her cheek with one hand.

"He's all I have. The one person who is truly mine."

"You're not alone. I'll take care of you. Always."

She wants to say more, to thank him or ask him to stay, but before she can truly make up her mind, they hear steps approaching. Aramis quickly hides, and Anne takes her baby to hold him. The child barely complains at all, comfortably falling asleep again against her chest. She has no doubt that by the time she goes back to bed, Aramis will be long gone.

The doors open, and Marguerite enters the room. "Your Majesty, what are you doing up so late?"

Anne, composed as usual, responds, "I couldn't sleep with the storm, so I came to see if he was well. Apparently, he is as brave as his father, because he hasn't even awakened." She smiles at the sleeping boy. "Go. Don't worry. We'll be fine."

"But-"

"I insist."

Marguerite curtsies. "Of course, Your Majesty." She leaves reluctantly, and once they are alone again, Anne takes the baby with her to bed. She lays him carefully before following, it is then she notices the cross left on the bed, the same golden one she has seen around Aramis' neck. She is quick to wrap it around her wrist and then press it gently to her son's chest.

Maybe they aren't as alone as she thought so.


End file.
